


consequential

by roguepath



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, vague spoilers for therion's CH3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 13:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15775305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roguepath/pseuds/roguepath
Summary: the aftermath of a close encounter makes for a harsh reminder that sometimes, that reckless altruism that alfyn's come to live by, affects not just himself, but the people around him — for better or for worse.and in a moment, in a smooth, vicious motion —— therion's hands grip the collar of alfyn’s shirt, yanking him so close there’s only a few spans between them.“do youknowhow close you were to falling off that cliff?!”





	consequential

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was inspired by a [comic](https://twitter.com/bwdrg/status/1029894037124341760) that tuna wrote, so please check out that comic and give her art a look!! thank you again for letting me write this!

Alfyn’s messed up — or, at least, he thinks so.

Because he’s so far talked Therion through cleaning his wounds, applying medicine, and wrapping bandages, and damn it all — he knows the man likes his thoughts to himself, but even still, there’s that _weight,_ to call it. Pressing on his neck, the little whisper in his ear telling him that something’s just not right.

One that suspiciously sounded like Zeph, now that he thinks of it.

“Hey,” he starts tentatively. “I’m gonna be alright, y’know?”

And there’s nothing. It’s then that Alfyn realizes what that _weight_ is: the tension in the air, the silence. That Therion’s not only quiet, but still.

Because while Therion’s a guy to keep to the shadows, sure — it’s practically in the job description — but like shadows, he changes with things around him. If he finds himself idle, he’ll take out a knife and whittle, practice, whichever. He’s often quiet, but he’s rarely ever _still;_ if he were both, it’s…

“Therion?”

(He swears that he didn’t mean for his voice to come out so tinny.)

...It’s worrying.

“Come on now,” he says. “I’ve been through worse!”

Alfyn smiles too wide. The last bit of that sentence comes out too loud.

He knows that.

“You already did a good job patching me up, so — why are ya so concerned?”

When Therion starts shaking like a leaf, Alfyn goes from “thinking” to “sure of” the fact that something is very, very wrong.

_“You...”_

And in a moment, in a smooth, vicious motion —

— his hands grip the collar of Alfyn’s shirt, yanking him so close there’s only a few spans between them.

“Do you _know_ how close you were to falling off that cliff?!”

Alfyn blinks, stunned. He opens his mouth to speak, but Therion cries, and in a voice that leaves him untethered:

“It’s bad enough you kept taking hits for me, you godsdamned idiot!”

But this isn’t the first he’s done that, no — because he’s a scruffy, scraggly apothecary sure, but he’s got the teachings of a knight ingrained into him and he can’t _not_ stand there. Stand by while the rest of them are on the verge of falling to their knees. Stand there while they’re hurting and dying, so he doesn’t _get_ it — doesn’t get why —

“I’m—I’m still here, Therion,” Alfyn says tentatively. “I’m still here,” he says, more surely. “Ain’t I?”

“You are,” Therion says. His words are a mountain wind. Chilling. Harsh. “But if I hadn’t been there to kill that _one_ Ratkin that was going towards you, you — you —”

“I would’ve been fine, Theri — I mean, ‘s not like I coulda —”

_“You could have_ **_died!”_ ** And, quieter: “...You could have died. Don’t you _get that?!”_

_Oh._ So that’s it.

His bewildered expression long falls flat, and gods the dread in the air is pinpricks against his skin. The dead air on his neck. The proximity. The acidity in his voice feels more echo than words.

“What _good_ are you to us dead?!” Therion seethes, his knuckles, still gripping the cloth of his shirt as though so much a stiff breeze will blow him away, white. His voice rings of venom in the tense air, of frustration, and at _what?_

Maybe that’s what he thinks, because he continues, his voice ringing of venom, of frustration, and at _what?_ Alfyn’s tempted to say it’s him, but… No. Maybe not that. Not a straightforward answer.

“But I’m not — it’s not like I’m the only one who does that when we’re fightin’,” Alfyn says, his voice small. “I mean, I’m no Olberic, but —”

_“Bullshit,”_ Therion retorts, a steely gleam in his eyes. “Olberic’s practically got that technique ingrained in his bones, Alfyn; he took a godsdamned vow, _knowing_ the risks, having backups, he _knows_ what he’s getting into when he pulls shit like that. You — You were a healer before this, you didn’t — you didn’t know this, you didn’t train in this—”

_“Therion —”_

“How can you _possibly—”_ he snarls, brows furrowed. “—go in there thinking that. What _good_ are you to us — to those people — _dead?!_ How do you expect us to trust you won’t go and pull stupid shit like that?!” His voice catches on the question, and the jade glint in his eyes is replaced by something else as he breaks contact.

Something vulnerable. Something raw.

“...how do you expect _me_ to...?” Comes the question, left in the air; as Therion’s shoulders slump, even as he holds the collar of his shirt.

And Alfyn realizes, that haunted look in his gaze, it looks as though he saw a ghost — no, he realizes, and corrects. That Therion sees what _could_ have been a ghost. And memories flick through his mind: of the scars that run down his back, of whispers, whimpers in his slumber.

“I… I didn’t realize…” he murmurs, almost a whisper.

“When I saw you there,” Therion mutters, shaking his head. “I didn’t — I didn’t even _see_ the battle. I saw myself on that cliff. I don’t think I could even think back there. Just remember thinking that I —” A wince, and a pause.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he chokes out. It’s a quiet, shaky thing, those words — but they hit their mark. “Not there. Not like this.”

Death is nothing new to Alfyn. Knocked on his door at the age of ten, took Ma at twenty, and that isn’t to say anything about his patients. Too many times too late, the fire in them dims to a flicker and fades, and he’s left with only flesh going stiff and cold.

But that doesn’t stop him, almost never has. He lives by his words, striving to live life for others, risking it too. And he’s never had a problem with that.

Now, though. He has a grave understanding of Zeph’s warnings and rebukes, because Death’s come knocking again; and while Alfyn hears it, and presses on, no problems there — that isn’t to say anyone else feels the same.

“I never thought ‘bout it in that way,” he admits, after a pause. “For the longest time, I — never saw a problem with riskin’ my life and all, ‘s practically second nature to me. Only now I see that I hurt others ‘cause of it, and for that… I’m sorry. To everyone else I’ve worried, and to you ‘specially, Therion.”

Moments pass, until Therion lifts his head. The tear tracks that run down his cheeks are not unnoticed; hells, they set of a pang in Alfyn’s heart — thank the freshly realized guilt for that — but while there’s no smile, the ghost in his eyes is gone. Like someone’s gone and put down the salt and rosemary for the night, and he can see without a fear in the world again.

“Don’t be,” he says, his voice quiet. “Just…” A sigh. “Just be careful. _Please.”_

Alfyn takes in a breath, nodding. “Right. I will.”

“Good. All I want to hear.”

“...So, are we good?”

Therion gives a tired laugh. “What do you think?”

He shifts in his seat, before lifting his arms up to hug him — 

“Wait wait wait—”

“Ack — sorry, should I have asked?”

“No, idiot, you’re injured!”

“...Ah.”

“Pfft.” Therion leans and lets his head fall on Alfyn’s shoulder, mindful of his wounds.

“We’ll talk with the others later,” Alfyn murmurs, letting a hand rest in his hair. “But I promise you — I’ll be more watchful of that sorta thing in the future. Both of my safety and your feelings.”

“...Okay. Thank you.”

“Mm.” A beat. _“So,”_ Alfyn begins, giving a low, quiet laugh. “Guess I’m the little spoon for tonight?”

Therion holds back a laugh. “Guess so.”

“Got it,” he murmurs, letting out a breath.  “‘m not goin’ anywhere.”

“And I’m not gonna let you die that easily. So don’t beat yourself too much over it, big guy.”

The two of them are right; Alfyn isn’t — and Therion won’t. Not if either of them can help it. 

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on my [twitter!](https://twitter.com/thiefexp) and while you're at it please check out [tuna's](https://twitter.com/bwdrg) art, it's amazing!
> 
> and as always, if you enjoyed this, be sure to let me know!


End file.
